The Place of Connection
by HappySpoon
Summary: What happens when a young England connects to the ancient sanctuary of Stonehenge?
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Rural England is beautiful, not that he would ever admit it out loud. For he was the personification of France and he took pride in his own vast country of mountains, vineyards and sophistication. Still, this strange backwater island on the edge of Europe had its merits. Extensive, fertile ploughed fields stretched for miles along dusty tracks, intermingled with ancient woodland and spotted with villages and towns. Fens, valleys and hills were laced with rivers and streams, all managed and tamed by the inventive population. The natural and the manmade formed an elegant equilibrium across this rich land in a timeless, never ending cycle of seasons.

It was as though the people never changed, yet France knew this to be quite a different story. England itself was a new concept, formed recently from the merging of the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms of Wessex, Northumbria, East Anglia and Mercia. This fair land had seen much bloodshed, strife and toil from ancient days to now and France had no doubts such a pleasant place would see much more in the future. It made his "big brother" protective urges kick in at the thought. Perhaps one day he would take this land and protect it from harm through his own strength.

These urges to protect were far from dissipated as he gazed down at the infant boy he was walking with. The boy toddled slowly along the worn, dusty, woodland path; his infant feet clumsy and uncoordinated from his young age. He walked ahead of France, forging his own path ahead, often with meandering detours from the trail to feed his unquenchable curiosity of the world around him. Leaves and twigs; trees and butterflies; shrubs and birds - all were examined in wonder and joy by the tiny blonde boy with the bright, beaming smile. France could not help but feel affectionate and protective over his companion, wishing for him to remain innocent and unafraid for eternity.

Unfortunately, it seemed fate had a different path for the youngster, who France had discovered was the personification of the newly formed England. Ever since he had first heard word that England had become a united country, he knew a personification would appear. It was just hard to judge where the personification would be and how long they would last. Some would come in strength and glory and fade swiftly as boundaries and territories were divided and realigned; others would come and stay for an eternity of men to form the great nations of the world. The personifications of the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms were lucky to have lasted as long as they did before they faded to be replaced by the youngster before him. France barely rated the chances of this infant foundling England surviving; what with the Norse threats from across the sea and the Celtic threats on his borders. Still, perhaps a united England would stand strong and tall and face off the threats that may bring its downfall and the land personified by the small boy would last through the ages. Who knows what fate has in store?

They had only met recently. France had been travelling north with his entourage towards the heartland of the old Kingdom of Northumbria for diplomatic reasons. He had sensed the presence of another personification so had left his company to make camp nearby. Soon he had discovered the small boy, wandering aimlessly in a field of cattle, alone and unafraid. France had approached the child cautiously, not wishing to frighten him. The child caught sight of him and looked thoughtful for a moment, his thumb stuck in his mouth. He had thick eyebrows, wide green eyes and a mop of unruly blonde hair. Dressed in nothing but a dirt stained tunic, he looked quite the disheveled sight - at least in comparison to the well maintained apparel of France.

Smiling slightly, he offered a quiet greeting in broken Old English, "Greetings, friend! What are you doing out here? It is far from civilisation."

The child tilted its small head, sucking on its thumb before eventually pointing to himself and saying one word, "Engwand!" He then shoved his thumb back in his mouth and blinked owlishly at France.

The older smiled. How could he not? Little England could not be more sweet if he tried. After a moments thought he pointed to his own chest and responded with a simple, "France!" He grinned as the child beamed a radiant smile up to him, gazing adoringly at him without a care in the world. He reached into a small pouch at his waist and pulled out a small loaf of bread which he broke in half, offering half to the infant. The child gazed at it hesitantly before taking it and eating it hungrily; France consuming his own share simultaneously. When they finished, France held out his hand and England shyly took it and the two went back to his camp.

The boy had stuck with his elder all the way up north and for the duration of his business. They then broke away from the entourage of servants and important folk who had been accompanying France and the two disappeared to explore this green and fertile land. The young pair had traversed many wild places until they reached their current path. Throughout their travels, the two had mostly enjoyed a companionable silence - England could manage few words on his infant tongue and France was content with the peace and quiet of the countryside.

France pondered where they were. He knew they were slowly meandering their way south by the position of the sun, but he was unaware of their exact location in relation to the major towns of England. A short while back he had suggested following a different path out of the woodland and into open farmland, but the child was quite determined to go in this direction. What harm could it do? It was his country after all, perhaps he could sense something interesting ahead.

All personifications had the ability to connect to their land through multiple channels. They could sense the hurts, wants and moods of their people and would often act according to those wants - if the people wanted to go to battle then so be it. Nations could also sense the landscape itself, how it changed and fluctuated over time, how people used it and nature edited it through the centuries. They were intimately linked with the land and its people, personifying both in personality, action and appearance. It was perfectly possible that the little infant could sense something important up ahead. Although France suspected that the main motive was probably innocent curiosity and perhaps a hint of stubbornness for the youngster to get his own way.

Suddenly, England halted, gazing up at a spot above his head with a curious expression. The little one took a step back, smiling somewhat and reaching up a hand into the air. Curious, France approached slowly, looking carefully to try and see what the child saw. He quirked a brow, assuming the youngster to be playing an unusually childish game - uncharacteristic for him but not too surprising considering his young age. France felt smug. He was still a young nation himself in reality, despite being reasonably mature. It was a pleasant novelty to be the older brother as it were and France enjoyed the feeling of being mature. He was four hundred years old and childish enough for their kin, but he felt as old as the hills themselves compared to the innocent display of playfulness before him.

His smug self righteousness dissipated in an instant as the little one suddenly let out a small cry and ran charging off into the woods. France just caught a glimpse of the youngster looking around wildly before he disappeared from sight. Cautiously, the elder stepped forward, peering around hesitantly to try and spot the little one. The foliage seems broken in places but the child seems to have thrown caution to the wind. France peers around the corner where he last saw England, but the child has barely left a trace. He cannot be gone. Are these woods even safe? Were their norsemen in these parts ready to enslave the little child?

France felt sick.

"England?"

No response.

"England? Where are you? Come back!"

Silence resonates.

"ENGLAND?!"

The child is gone...

 **A/N: This story is set in approximately the middle to end of the ninth century following a unified Anglo-Saxon England, but prior to Dane settlement in the Kingdom of Jorvik. Viking raids would have been common by this point in English history. The French tribes were first unified in the middle of the fifth century AD. England would have consisted of a lot of farm land and much of its woodland would have been felled by this point in history, however it was before the Norman rules of forest law and land ownership so the woodland that was there would have mostly been fairly natural.**

 **I have tried to keep relatively accurate to the time period and suitably vague about exact dates but please let me know if there are any glaring historical errors and I shall correct these.**

 **Updates shall be soon. Thanks for reading.**

 **I do not own Hetalia.**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

At a young age, England took great delight in the company of France; despite denying this for centuries later. His elder was kind, generous and walked with England in companionable silence for the most part. England was aware his verbal linguistic skills were still very patchy due to his youth, but he was old enough to understand many of things that others said to him. He was frustrated by his lack of ability to reply, therefore silent company was golden to him. The quiet also allowed him to make the most of the sounds of nature that reverberated around the landscape in which they travelled. The rustling of trees in the wind, the faint sounds of human activity, the chirping of birds and the lazy buzz of insects that droned through the warm, late summer air. The whole formed a perfect symphony of sound that the child could never call dull - his senses enriched by the music of nature.

So when an abrupt voice interrupted his thoughts he was somewhat startled and instinctively stopped walking, taking a step backwards.

"Hello little one! You are England are you not?"

England paused in his walking, looking around to locate the source of the voice and momentarily forgetting about France who walked behind him.

"I am up here little England!"

The mysterious voice was rich and smooth but quite high pitch, almost effeminate in its delicacy whilst being distinctly male. England looked up, finally locating the source of the noise and raising his impressive eyebrows in a gesture of surprise at what he saw. Hovering at about the height of an average man was a small, green...what?

To describe the unusual creature before him would be no mean feat. The most striking feature was its colour - a soft, pastel green that was akin to a dew kissed mint leave in the soft dawn light. Its fur was short and looked velvet soft to the child. Its limbs were small with its back legs far longer than its short front legs. On its back were two large wings that were a good nine inches apiece (the creature was small so the wings appeared large in proportion to its little body), and arrayed in beautiful, translucent, pale green feathers. Displayed proudly on the small of its back was a small cotton tail that looked as though it had been plucked off any bunny. Its mouth lit up in a bright smile that was reflected in its emerald green eyes. All in all it was a mint coloured bunny that could fly and apparently talk.

Little England knew he was young for a nation and his mind was immature and childish. It meant he had yet to discover many things in the world and as such he spent a lot of his time exploring and satisfying his curiosity. Yet even he knew that this creature was something special and unusual, remarkable in its unique physique. He smiled, curiosity still in his eyes but overwhelmed by his innocent joy in seeing such a special thing. He reached a gentle hand up as an offering of peace to the creature and it laughed happily and nuzzled into his fingers.

"England, you are so sweet!" It spoke between its happy giggling, "Will you follow me? There is much I have to show you!"

It beckoned to the child before flying off into the woods quickly. Surprised by the abrupt departure, England let out a small cry before collecting himself and running full pelt after the special creature. He was unbothered by the risk of danger, caring only that he kept the small flying bunny in his sights. Subconsciously, he was aware of France calling for him but he paid little heed, charging off after his new acquaintance. His footsteps were light, for he had long ago learnt the art of tracking and remaining undetected in places such as these in order to both find food and avoid those who would seek to bestow harm upon his frail body.

The creature led him out of the woods and into an open, grassy plain. A few red deer who were grazing peacefully on the plain, took fright at his appearance and galloped off into the distance. The bunny slowed to a halt and allowed him to catch his breath and take in his surroundings, hovering by his shoulder while he did so.

The grass was thick and long, wild and unkempt and taller than the infant, meaning he could see little other than grass and sky. The lack of features on the horizon suggested that the grass went on for some distance. Although he thought he could just make out some standing stones in the distance. Wild flowers were scattered like stars and he picked a pretty purple-blue one and gave it to the creature, a large smile lighting his features as he did so. It tentatively took it in its tiny paws, looking at England with a questioning expression.

The child tentatively explained in his garbled infant tongue, "You fwend! Flower for fwend!"

"You picked a rare flower to give to me - I am sure from now on many people will associate this flower with friendship." His eyes twinkled as he spoke, "Come now, let us move on. It will not take us long to reach our destination now."

The two toddled and flew together, side by side in a companionable silence, reflecting England's travels with France earlier that very day. Not that England really thought about him. It was as though for some reason the other did not matter and the only thing that mattered was walking forwards. He had felt a pull in this direction for some time now, as though the land was guiding him to this location. England had barely thought about it until now when the feeling was akin to being pulled forward by an invisible force. All other thoughts left him and he became fixated on walking closer and closer to the point that the world wanted him to go. Even his companion slipped from his thoughts as he picked up his pace. Nothing mattered other than reaching his destination.

There was a ditch to start with, shallow and circular in dimension. Beyond it the grass was cut short, he did not know whether people or the magic of the place had cut it. Scattered in a rough circle within the confines of the ditch were about a few stone blocks about the size of him, some a bit bigger. Beyond this and at the centre of the configuration were gigantic pillars of stone in a circle, the pairs capped with a hat in the form of another gigantic stone. Inside of that was another smaller circle but with stones that were even larger. Right at the centre was another circle of the smaller stones, forming the very heart of this strange complex. Marring the ground were giant stones that had once stood tall and proud but were now fallen in disarray - yet all made the place remarkable. It was out of this world, beautiful, ancient and perfect.

Tentatively, he stepped forwards, crossing the ditch slowly to enter into the sacred ground. The world around him seemed to hold its breath - the wind stilled, the birds stopped chirping and even the flying bunny hovered back, watching with bated breath from a distance. The child stepped over to one of the smaller stones outside the main ring and reached out a hand to touch it. He felt an exhilarating tremor run through his body. This place was full of magic and wonder and every step closer to the centre made him feel the magic of it pulsating through it. The rock itself seemed to shimmer with magic, mimicking a heartbeat of the sacred sight.

Slowly, he moved away from the rock and turned his attention to the large rings of rocks that dominated the landscape. Cautiously, he walked towards them, passing through the invisible barrier that the circle provided. He automatically walked towards the centre, barely aware of his actions. He reached out to one of the smaller stones and touched it with a gentle caress.

Instantly a face flashed into his vision and he cried out in surprise. The face looked similar to himself - blonde rugged hair and thick eyebrows - but the eyes were a pale blue and he was evidently slightly older. He instinctively realised that this person was another nation. A name sprung unbidden to his lips, "Wales." This nation was called Wales. He places a second hand on the rock and the vision became clearer. Another thought crossed through his mind - these smaller rocks came from Wales. Where were these thoughts coming from? It was as though the rock itself was telling him, yet he somehow doubted that.

He pulled away once more, walking idly between the stones but never leaving the ring of larger stones. Gradually, almost on instinct, his path took him to the centre of the central ring. There he stopped and took a deep breath. He felt as though he had never taken a breath before - the air was so perfect here it almost tasted sweet to him. In the distance he thought he heard someone call his name but he barely paid attention. Standing at the centre of this complex and magical place he turned a small circle, his small arms spread wide as he gazed up to the sky. This was it. The place he was supposed to come. The spot that the world had told him to reach.

With a sudden sense of purpose he sat down in the centre of the complex and placed both his hands down on the ground, connecting himself to the centre of this strange little world.

With that movement everything went black...

 **A/N: I hope my descriptions of Flying Mint Bunny and Stonehenge are both adequate, please correct me if there are any major faults.**

 **Thank you for reading and supporting my story so far!**

 **I do not own Hetalia.**


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

France was not upset. The puffy, red rimmed eyes and tear tracks on his normally flawless skin were...pollen? Yes. The English summer was giving him allergies. There was no other explanation at all. He sighed through his nose and hugged his knees to his chest, his back resting against an oak tree, trying desperately to keep himself calm. Despite knowing that the child would be more than capable of taking care of himself, France had felt nothing but misery and guilt since the little one had run off. What if he was hurt? Bitterly attacked by the personification of Denmark and bleeding out alone? France let out a little whimper...it would all be his fault.

What if the child had run because he hated France? He sniffed loudly, wiping a stray tear on the back of his hand before letting out a little whimper. He thought they were friends! He thought England was his little brother and now he was gone. Had he done something wrong? France did not recall making the child cry, indeed the youngster had mostly been nothing but smiles and innocent laughter throughout their time together. A small sob ruptured through the poor boy's throat. Despite being older than England he was still young enough for this to hurt and confuse him. He felt immature and weak. Pathetic. Unloved.

He was not upset.

This was not getting to him.

This was (not) his fault.

He gave up and succumbed once again to misery, his tears running freely and his sobs echoing around the trees. The last few weeks had been some of the happiest in his life. He wished more than anything to protect his little England forever, keep him close, unharmed and safe. France wanted the child by his side - perhaps they could live together and play and look after their nations in a house, together, forever. To do that he would first need to find the youngster and to do that he would need to control his emotions. Not that he was upset...he was not upset at all. The tears were just...just...from a sad story he remembered about a...dead frog. Yes. That was the reason. The sobs continued to echo around the woods.

France did not know how long he sat there weeping, but eventually his tears dried up and he was left feeling lethargic and thirsty. He wiped his face with his hands, letting out a long sigh as his misery finally dissipated. Deciding sitting there would get nothing achieved, he shifted himself away from the tree, shuffling slightly. Slowly, he rose to his feet and stretched his stiff limbs, cracking his shoulders and back with a satisfying movement. He let out a yawn before plodding off aimlessly, unsure where to go, he half looked for a source of fresh water, half a campsite and half for England. His mathematics was never his strong point.

The shadows were beginning to lengthen as the sun moved towards the horizon. It was early evening and cooling off rapidly after a hot, cloudless summer day. The sky was now a brilliant hue of turquoise blue with a few wispy clouds racing each other, the flashes of fluffy white coyly peeking out from behind the trees. France was beginning to feel the evening chill and that made him fret even more about the little one that had run away. The child was dressed in nothing but his dirty tunic and a simple cloak that had been a gift from France, who had fretted about the possibility that the youngster might get unwell from the chilli English summer nights. Despite this France had made sure the two had slept near a warm cozy fire and on one or two nights France had gathered little England into his arms in a warm and comfortable embrace that had lasted all the night long. They had both been content and safe. Was England safe now?

His aimless meandering took him to the edge of the woodland. He blinked, snapped out of his fretting by the abrupt change in terrain. Before him stretched a vast, grassy plain, with long, thick, unkempt grass. In the distance he could see other patches of woodland dotted about like flicks of green paint on the canvas of the landscape. The striking feature of the landscape was the mighty stones - a series of circular stones standing tall and proud as though they were trees grown from the land itself. France had never seen anything like it before. They were beautiful concentric rings and even though some stones had fallen, it simply seemed to give the place a feeling of timelessness, as though they had been there forever.

They were still in the distance, yet France started to approach the, almost on instinct. They mesmerised his thoughts, honing in on nothing but the complexity of the structure. Even little England and his former distress of losing the infant faded to the back of his mind, inconsequential compared to the display of man's finest hour that was laid out before him. Who built this? It must have taken an army or determined men to make sure an elegant structure. Why did they build it? It must have been important to them, whatever the reason. When did they build this? They seemed to have been here for an eternity. He swallowed thickly, he had always admired beauty but had seen nothing that compared to the beauty before him.

Moving forward, he was caught in a daze, barely aware of when he stumbled or misplaced his footing. He left a wonky trail of squashed grass behind him, marking his presence in this mysterious place. One arm reached forwards as though to touch the stones that gradually loomed larger and larger as he approached. France was captivated, utterly enthralled, every fibre of his being focused on the monument, as though it was reaching out and calling for him, pulling him closer with soft words. He was unaware of anything, not even how close he was getting to the monument itself.

A movement caught his eye and he halted abruptly. He looked around himself slowly, as though made aware of his actions once again. His footsteps had taken him close to the ditch that encircled the structure but he barely remembered how he had arrived at that point. Blinking, his eyes trained on the movement that has caught his attention. Was that...? England! The child was weaving in and out of the stones with a dazed expression, his green eyes ablaze with passion unlocked by the incredible place.

France automatically started walking towards him but as soon as he tried to cross the ditch he felt an invisible force push him back. Frowning, he tried again, pushing on the barrier with both hands. It did him little good. Beginning to panic, he called out England's name, watching as the child spread his arms out and turned a full circle, completely oblivious to the presence of the other. A wave of fear passed through France's body, well aware that there was some sort of magic or unnatural force at work. Instinctively, he crossed himself and started muttering the Lord's Prayer in broken Latin under his breath, hoping that the God of his people would protect the child before him from whatever source ray was at work.

He watched in horror as the youngster seated himself in the centre of the central ring and placed both hands on the ground. France scrabbled furiously at the barrier, desperate to be by England's side but nothing would let him pass through. He cried out for the child but it was to no avail. For the child simply crumpled over in what looked to be a dead faint and France could not reach him.

 **A/N: Things do pick up from the next chapter, this one was something of a filler. France's big brother protective instincts in this context were fulfilled a few hundred years later with the Norman conquest of England. If the characters seem a little out of character it is simply because they are so young and innocent and have both yet to see a lot of the strife that makes them who they are. I hope that some hints of personality are coming through though.**

 **Henge monuments are argued to only be found in Britain and Ireland, although the European continent has other similar monuments that are not quite defined as a Henge. There is some scholarly debate about this but either way none of the Henges are quite like Stonehenge anyway, hence France has never seen anything like it.**

 **Once again, if there are any inaccuracies please let me know.**

 **Thanks for your continued reading and support!**

 **I do not own Hetalia.**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

 **Warnings for mild blood, suicide and mild violence.**

Everything went black...

The darkness consumed England like a ravenous beast, hungry for his very essence. All traces of light were wiped out and he felt trapped in the deepest corner of deep space. How long had he been there? Was it five minutes? Or five hundred years? Who was he? He could not remember his own name. What could he remember? He thought long and hard...or was it that long? Time stood still and sped up simultaneously in a paradox of confusion.

The stones.

He could remember the stones. Nothing more and nothing less. They were beautiful, timeless and perfect in their formation. He focused his mind on the stones and they consumed his thoughts as he stared into the black void before him. How had he never seen the stone before today? Was it still today that he saw them? He was not sure.

England was so focused in on his thoughts of the mysterious place that at first, he did not notice the colour come back into his world. As if plucked from his very thoughts the stones stood proud before him, contrasting grey against the void of black that formed the backdrop to their appearance. They were different though, standing taller and prouder, their surfaces smoother and less weather beaten as they stood in fully formed concentric rings. No stone was knocked down now and every piece was perfectly in place, free from the abuse of time. They were even more impressive in their fully majesty - a feat of human ingenuity that none could fail to marvel at.

The child looked on in awe and wonder. How long he stared for he did not know as he lost himself in the sight before him. His reverie was only disturbed when a movement caught his eye. A long procession started to make its way into the scene, the humans seeming to materialise from the depths of the darkest part of the black void. They were arrayed in earth coloured garments of fur and leather and many carried staves of wood or weapons such as bows or flint tipped spears. Slowly, they processed down towards the stones, chanting and singing in a language unknown yet not unfamiliar to their onlooker. No children graced the scene and the women were few in number. Several of the men led a fully grown boar down by herding it with spears, keeping the creature unharmed but moving. Eventually the group moved into the stones themselves and formed a ring within the sacred innermost circle, the boar pinned down near the centre by the butt end of several spears. A bald man dressed in thick furs with swirled markings on his body and crowned in a large set of antlers, stepped forth and addressed the group.

"The Sun God in its might looks down upon these stones and finds great glory in them. May we please the Sun God and his Lady the Moon for all eternity. May they bless our crops and our livestock; our homes and our people." His voice was loud and clear, echoing through the landscape like peels of thunder. England was surprised by the fact that he could understand every word of the language spoken. He doubted he would be able to reply in their language, knowing only a few words in his native Anglo-Saxon, but he knew he could listen and understand their words in this strange void.

The man gestured to the captured boar and spoke once more, "Let us feed the Sun God so that he may feed us in return and give us good fortune." Turning he beckoned to a man wearing nothing but a leather loin clothe and carrying a spear, the polished flint on the the weapon formed a perfect point and glittered as though from the Sun. There was no sign of the stars in the void but England was not concerned, as he increasingly was coming closer to the conclusion that this scene was a glimpse into the past of the stones, set in this strange black void that he had found himself in, although of course he did not know for sure.

The loin clothe man, who England assumed was the priest, approached the boar and raised his spear high, beginning to chant loudly in praise of their God. As the animal struggled against its captures, the rest of the people joined hands and raised them in a circle, singing a thick melody in time to his chant. Their music formed an eery rhythm of praise as it built in a crescendo of volume. Suddenly there was an overwhelming silence, as though an invisible conductor quietened his choir with a single flick of his hand. The priest bought his spear down and with a cry of strength he drove it into the heart of the boar, cutting through its thick leather easily as it let out it's final cries of death.

England widened his eyes, fascinated with the scene as he watched the villagers descend on the boar. They used their flint tools to cut its tusks off and take its heart out before they lay them down near one of the larger stones. They then picked up the mangled car us and carried it away from the stones. Blood gushed everywhere from the grisly deed, staining the sacred ground red as the group paraded away from the sight with their prize.

The dark red drew England's gaze and he watched in fascination as the blood pooled together and then slowly started to swirl in strange patterns, as though it was being stirred by a ladle in an invisible cauldron. Instinctively, England drew closer, walking through the void towards the swirling liquid. The people were long gone by now and he found himself being drawn towards the unnatural phenomenon. His hand reached forward tentatively and he touched the centre of the pooling mass of writhing blood.

He screamed.

The blood pulled him in as though he was travelling through a vortex. He was tossed about like a sack of potatoes, carelessly thrown through this swirling red pool. Nauseousness overcame him both from the falling sensation and because of the cloying feel of swirling never ending blood clutching at his skin and clothing. He screamed again, terrified and hating every second of the unnatural sensation that insisted on pulling him in, unable to resist the overwhelming force of the horrifying bloody vortex. When he thought he could take no more and would go mad the sensation stopped and every trace of blood cleared.

Red...everything was red...where was he? The stones had gone, faded away into the red as though sucked through a whirlpool, but the black void remained unchanged as a backdrop to the scene before him. Disorientated, the child took a moment to calm down after the miserable experience. Taking deep breaths he felt himself relax and his heart rate slow down to a more sedate and natural pace. Feeling better, he finally took stock of his new surroundings fully.

There were soldiers dressed in red and metal, armed with large rectangular shields, short iron swords and long iron kissed spears. There long ranks were knitted together in perfect unity and organisation as they faced down their opponents. These were men who seemed almost numerous in their untamed disorganisation, a tartan clad rabble painted in blue designs, sporting blood red wounds. They were led by a woman with fire red hair who stood as tall and proud as her men as they bled for her and bleed they did.

England felt sick just looking at the scene. Red stained the ground as the bodies piled up before him, thousands littering the field already and he did not doubt that many more would come. So few of the metal clad soldiers had been killed - the piles of the dead were composed almost entirely of their seemingly uncouth enemies. England felt an overwhelming sense of sadness at the loss of life, instinctively disliking the fewer but better armed soldiers. He felt a connection with the masses and realised absently that this must be a past battle on his land, well before he was born and the native people were on the losing side.

The battle raged for what seemed like hours and the bodies piled up in their thousands. So few men had taken down so many. But there were not just men for women and children from the camp nearby were also being slaughtered unsympathetically. Men, women and children were cut down as they fled, with many taken as prisoners to become slaves. England's gaze rested on their leader once more - the woman of fire hair. She was standing a little away, covered in the blood of both the men she had fought and those who fought for her. England began to make his way towards her as he saw her bend down to pick up a knife. He reached out towards the defeated leader but she did not seem to see or hear his cries of anguish. Instead she pointed the blade to her own unprotected stomach and plunged it inside. Her knees buckled beneath her and she collapsed to the ground, bleeding out until she breathed her last.

England screamed once more.

"Stop it!" He cried, hardly knowing the words to express his anguish at the horrors he had witnessed. Collapsing to his knees, he broke into loud sobs of distress at the bloodshed, defeat and suicide of the vanquished. Pressing his hands to his face he remained sobbing loud wails for some time, hardly aware of the sounds of battle fading around him.

The sound of the sea lapping against the shore stirred him and he raised his tear stained face up. This time his surroundings had changed without any bloody vortex and he was instantly grateful. Before him stretched a sandy cove with beach pebbles stretching up to the sand dunes. The sea lapped lazily against the sand and insects buzzed in the long grass of the dunes in a soothing rhythm. Just above the dunes and off to one side stood a large monastery built of red sandstone, standing grand in its splendour, proud against the landscape.

Monks flitted around the building and beach. One collecting driftwood whilst singing a song of praise to the Christian God, his feet moving in sync with his music. Another herded a small group of goats across the dunes, his staff tapping the goats into line as he scolded them gently in his native Anglo-Saxon tongue. A small group of chattering and laughing monks in high spirits, were tugging a boat up the beach, out of reach of the tides. The boat seemed to glisten like silver due to the catch of fish that glittered and wriggled in the bright summer sun. The scene was one of peace and plenty and it warmed England's heart, almost making him forget his previous horror or ignore the black void that surrounded him and the scene before him.

If only the peace could last.

Content, England sat on the sand and watched the world go by, the peace of the place making him relax. Curiously, he felt neither hunger, thirst or fatigue but he attributed this to the strangeness of the void he was in. Still, he felt no desire to move and he sat quietly, leant back on his hands with his legs stretched out, his green eyes glinting in the sun. He felt like he could stay there forever in that peaceful place and be perfectly happy.

It was some time later that the world stirred. The monks paused in their chores and looked out to the sea. Some pointed, others ran to the monastery. A warning bell rang out its deep cry. England tried to turn to see what had caused their concern but he was rooted to the spot, unable to move. A wave of fear ran cold through his little form and he shivered unhappily, awaiting whatever trial the peaceful folks would have to face next.

Suddenly, boats came crashing up the bay either side of him. The boats were long with oars and furled sails, dotted with brightly coloured shields on both sides. Large men with beards and rugged appearance jumped from the ships, clothed in mail, armour and leather and armed with swords, axes and shields. They screamed their war cries to their pagan God's and started charging down the beach towards the monastery, intent on harm.

Abruptly, one of them stopped and turned to look at England. He was but a child, taller and older than England but still young in the eyes of mortal men. He was dressed in leather and carried a small axe and shield. His messy, long blonde hair poked out beneath his steel helmet and his blue eyes looked at England with curiosity. Instinctively, England knew this was one of his kin and he could see England - the first to notice his presence since he woke up in the void.

"Who are you?" The elder asked in his native tongue, obviously curious about the presence of a small nation child in such a place.

"Engwand!" He replied, his green eyes wide with fear as he eyed the axe. He was once again unsure how he understood the language but it seemed the void translated for them as the other seemed to understand.

"Do not worry, I will not hurt you...England! I am called Denmark and I come from the land over the sea to seek wealth and to die in battle to go to Valhalla. Why are you here?"

England thought on his words for a moment, slightly confused about what a Valhalla was, before eventually replying, "Stone anna dark!" That seemed to summarise the situation.

"You should go home! This place is no longer safe." The elder glanced up towards the smoke plumes coming from the monastery, tuning out the screams of terror to look at the innocent child before him. He stepped towards the green eyed youngster, hand outstretched to take his. Just as he was about to reach England a monk came screaming and running down the beach, blood dripping from a jagged cut on his forehead, chased by several of the warriors. They seemed to not see the child and ran straight towards England who looked afraid. Denmark cried out a warning, telling them to stop but his cry died on his lips as they ran straight through the child as though he were made of air. England remained unharmed, if startled and the two stared at each other for a few moments.

"What are you?"

The question and the confused Dane were the last things England heard or saw before everything faded to black and the void consumed all once more.

 **A/N: The Stonehenge ancient ritual is set in the Neolithic period (the Stone Age), where people would have farmed and used a lot of flint as resources. Given Stonehenge's astronomical alignment I felt that both the Sun and Moon would be objects of worship. The ritual itself is entirely made up by me and there is no evidence for sacrifices at Stonehenge.**

 **The battle scene is fought between Boudicca and the Roman army led by Gaius Suetonius Paulinus in the Battle of Wattling Street. It depicts the final battle of Boudicca where she was defeated. The Roman writers such as Tacitus and Dio state that 230,000 men plus women and children were defeated by just 10,000 Roman soldiers with losses of 80,000 against just 400. However, this was history written by the winners so this is possibly over exaggerated. Boudicca was rumoured to have killed herself by poison to avoid capture, but in this story it seemed unlikely that there would be poison lying around the battle field for her to use so I used a knife for her death.**

 **The first Viking raid in England was in 793AD at the Monastery at Lindersfarne in Northumberland according to the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. Although Denmark was not founded as a country until the tenth century, I have portrayed Denmark in this instance as being founded with the first Viking culture in the sixth century AD, so he would be slightly younger than France in this story - the Viking raid is set not much before the present day storyline.**

 **Please let me know if there is any historical inaccuracy.**

 **Thanks to those who have read, reviewed, favourited and who continue to support my story.**

 **I do not own Hetalia.**


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

The scene faded to the void once more and darkness reigned. England felt as though he was floating, a weightless sensation descending on his body that made him slightly dizzy and nauseous. He felt as though he had great wings and could soar through the eternal, black void like a great eagle soaring through the sky. As he became used to the unusual sensations, the dizziness and nausea passed and the feeling became one of all consuming power and he relished in it; for once in this strange world he felt strong and in control of his own thoughts and deeds. A glow formed all around him, but the strongest light came from just above his head. Looking up, he saw the perfect form of a halo circling the air above his head, in a perfect glittering golden circle. Surprised by the beautiful site above him, his green eyes widened as they glittered in the magical light and his mouth opened with a gasp, rosy lips forming a perfect O-shape. A movement caught his eye and he noticed glinting silver wings stretched out behind him, he flapped them experimentally and was amazed at the distance a single flap took him.

He felt powerful and invincible, a sunbeam casting away the darkness of the void as he flew forwards with little heed to directions. As he grew in confidence, he found himself showing off and trying tricks in the air, spinning and wheeling around in a beautiful dance through the dark, his every movement now bound by grace that he had never before possessed. Filled with unquenchable joy he laughed long and loud and the sound was as fair and musical as the nightingales' song. Spreading his arms out wide he felt the purest forms of innocent fun spread through his being, blossoming through him like the fairest flowers of spring in a grassy meadow. All his troubles faded as he soared through the darkness and it was seldom he ever experienced such wonder and peace as that moment for the rest of his days.

Suddenly from the void came a familiar mint green face - the curious winged bunny appeared and flew over to him, shrouded in its own green glow so it stood out from the void. The abrupt appearance of the creature caused England to halt and the child shyly hovered nearby, slightly timid in the unexpected presence of the other when in his current unusual form. The creature paused to admire England's new wings and halo before it spoke in its smooth voice.

"Greetings Little England! You look radiant! In all my days I have never seen so fair an angel as you my child." The creature smiled at him warmly, his words causing England to blush shyly.

"Fank you! Was angel?" He asked, his childish tongue making a mouthful over the simple question.

"An angel is someone who can use magic and see magical creatures that others cannot see. You are very gifted at both, although your powers have only truly unlocked with your connection to the Stones." The bunny twitched its whiskers importantly, obviously proud to be able to explain a few things to the child before him. "Touching the heart of the Stones made you connect to the land and the magic of the earth in a way you never have before, which is why you wound up here. This is your true form, a form in which you need no incantation to form magic, although you will need practice to get to that stage. I doubt you will be able to access that form in your universe but perhaps in times of great peril or in places of great magic you may be able to." The bunny mused, evidently unsure of the power of the infant.

"Was here?" England queried, his large eyebrows furrowed in thought at the words of the other.

"This is The Province of Shadows. The place between universes where all magic originates. You and your fellow Nations come from this place, for there is ancient magic in all of you that connects you to your people and land and gives you your long lifespans." He paused momentarily in his explanation, fixing the child with a wise gaze, "Not that any of you remember this place other than the few of you who wield magic. There will never be many magic users in your universe for The Province of Shadows has few connections to it. However, there are some spots that connect to it and Stonehenge is one. The ancients felt the magic in the landscape there and erected the stones to their Gods. It is the heartland of the ancestors of your people and a place of magic so it will always be sacred to you and your people." He thought for a moment before adding, "Stonehenge is the name that place will one day be known as in case you were wondering."

England flapped his wings, hovering as he digested the words of the other. The situation now made more sense to him but he still had many questions to ask. Reasoning that he might as well take advantage of the presence of the other, he decided to make the most of the moment, asking, "Who you?"

"I am called Flying Mint Bunny! The other magical creatures and I are able to travel between here and the many universes whenever we please, although most people in your universe do not notice us. Sometimes we are noticed as shadows, or felt as ghost like presences, but it is rare indeed that someone sees us for who we truly are."

"Can meet fwends?" England asked excitedly, keen to meet more magical creatures.

"Soon you can, little one. They would be delighted to see you." Flying Mint Bunny smiled warmly at the child, obviously fond of him. "I can tell you have more questions about this place though."

England looked surprised at the perceptiveness of the other before asking, "Why see fings?"

"I thought the visions may come up. The Stones are a place of power and they will stand long before you came along and they will last long after. They are closely connected to the Province of Shadows where time has little relevance. Therefore, as you connected to the Stones you connected physically to the heart of your nation and spiritually to the origin of magic. Your body is still in the centre of Stonehenge although you do not know it, but your spirit is roaming freely in this realm." The creature due a little closer during his explanation, "Due to the connection that the Stones have with your nation and the timeless quality they have they are able to show visions of the past, the present and the future, whether you have been present at those events or not. Unfortunately, they tend to show key events in the land or times of great strife or change or importance which are not pleasant things to witness. I am also unsure how many visions you will see or what form they will take. You ought to be careful as you may be able to influence events in some of them due to your magic, so try and stay out of sight if you can."

"Go home?" He asked, a tinge of sadness in his voice, as though fearing he may never return.

"You will be able to go home soon I am sure and I will be there when you do. The Province of Shadows will only keep you as long as it deems necessary. Time moves differently in this place, so I doubt you will have realistically been here very long."

Overwhelmed with information, the child concentrated, lost in his own thoughts for some time as he pieced things together in his mind. He slotted the new experiences in with the detailed explanations of the other and eventually was satisfied in his mind with how the events had played out, although a hint of confusion still remained in the surreal magical place. He doubted that would ever truly dissipate - there are some things that no amount of words or knowledge would ever explain.

As he remained locked in thought, he failed to notice the appearance of several other beings. When he finally focused back on the present, he looked up to find an unusual group present. A large man with a jaunty hat and a hook for one of his hands loomed tall over him, a crooked grin on his lips. Resting on his shoulder was a tiny, grinning fairy with a dazzling green dress and glittering silver wings that sprouted from her back. To England's left stood a beautiful silver horse with a creamy white tail and mane and a perfectly formed horn sprouting from its forehead. Finally, standing by Flying Mint Bunny was a small man, not much bigger than England, he sported a fluffy beard and a pointed hat and had a small pot of gold under his arm. Each of them glowed with their own light in the dark void, making them stand out against the blackness.

Flying Mint Bunny pointed to each of them respectively and introduced them, "England, meet my friends. There is Hook, Tinkerbell, Uni and Lepra."

Hook bowed graciously as he was introduced, "Arrr, pleasure to be a meetin' yer, shipmate!" The one handed man failed to notice the blank expression his pirate voice bought on from the child.

Tinkerbell noticed it and giggled, "Silly pirate, he can't understand you, speak clearly! I'm Tinkerbell and I'm glad to finally make your acquaintance. Our Flying Mint Bunny has told us all about you. He forgot to mention how adorable you are though!" The fairy gushed over the child, cooing a little which caused the little one to blush profusely in modest embarrassment.

Meanwhile, Uni came over and nuzzled him affectionately. England happily smiled and flung his arms around the soft creatures neck, delighting in the sensation of soft fur beneath his arms and cuddling the unicorn dearly, much to the delight of everyone involved. Poor Tinkerbell nearly fell off her perch at the cuteness overload displayed before her. There were smiles all around and even the slightly grumpy looking leprechaun managed a half smile.

"I am glad you are all getting along!" Flying Mint Bunny exclaimed joyfully, content with the situation, "We will all visit you in your world and be your friends."

"That's a promise for sure!" Exclaimed Tinkerbell with another giggle. Uni gave another affectionate nuzzle as England grinned from ear to ear.

The group drifted into idle chatter, drifting from topic to topic. England joined in occasionally with his baby words, although this mostly caused the fairy to melt down at his cute attempts. They were content, feeling a joy in companionship that is often rare for many people. They gently teased one another and laughed freely together. England never once let go of Uni and the two snuggled together, nuzzling each other with limitless affection, not unlike a puppy and owner bonding for the first time.

Time passed on swift wings, although none were aware of it. It was not until the group started fading away and slowly became see through that England realised how much time had passed. Panicking, he clung to Uni's fur and started whimpering a little, not wanting to be left alone in this unpredictable place again after the joy of the friends he had made.

"Fear not England, we will find you and you will be able to leave. Do not worry. We will see you soon!" Flying Mint Bunny said, his tone a little sad, but he tried to keep a smile on his face for the distressed youngster.

The group waved to him, calling promises to see him again and telling him not to worry. England sniffed, waving sadly as they faded, the little one trying to be brave. He barely noticed his wings and halo fading as his friends vanished in front of his eyes. The darkness overshadowed everything again and he sank back, deflated and unhappy.

He was alone in the blackness once more...

 **A/N: Less history and more fantasy and magic in this chapter than before. I hope it explains one or two things but please let me know if anything is confusing.**

 **Thanks for reading, favouriting and reviewing, your support for this story is appreciated.**

 **I do not own Hetalia.**


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

 **Warnings for mild violence and blood.**

Often one feels the loneliest after they have had company that has then departed and that was exactly how England felt. Alone, unhappy and awaiting whatever The Province of Shadows would throw at him next. He felt worn out, physical fatigue seemed impossible in this place but his mind was exhausted and he felt like he could sleep for a week. Closing his eyes, he lay back in the void, floating as he waited for sleep to claim him.

No such luck! After spending a considerable stretch of time in this position he came to the conclusion that you could not sleep in this realm. He opened his eyes and sat up, greeted by an abrupt change of scene. The void had faded before him to reveal the interior of a monastery, decked out in finery and filled with people. At the front was a man, dressed in regal attire and kneeling before the alter. Another man, evidently an important clergyman stood, speaking in Latin and holding aloft a crown. He placed the crown down on the head of the other who rose and turned to the onlookers.

"Hail, William the First, King of England!" The priest proclaimed loudly, the words translated into French by another who stood nearby, before the room erupted in thunderous cheering. England frowned...why French? He could not speak the language but knew enough to identify it being spoken. Whilst he mused, the cheering died down and the priest proceeded to distribute Mass to the new King while the people looked on with smiles - some false, some worn and some genuine. The ceremony continued with the familiar Latin doctrines washing over the crowd.

Outside, a commotion was heard and the smell of smoke wafted through through the windows. London was often smokey, but not like this, causing concern to ripple through the crowd. Heads turned and muted whispers wafted through with the smoke. Suddenly, the door opened and a couple of guards slipped into the monastery, closing the door swiftly behind them and trotting up the aisle to whisper to the new king and priest. England quietly slipped closer to eavesdrop, bearing in mind the warning about not being noticed that Flying Mint Bunny had issued. Leaning forward, he could just make out the hurried conversation.

"The guards, they thought the cheering was another revolt. They have set fire to the houses around! We must evacuate before the fire spreads to us." The guard spoke in hurried, whispered tones, looking rather frazzled by the whole situation.

"We cannot abandon Mass! That would be sacrilege in the eyes of God!" The priest spoke softly but indignantly, evidently nervous despite his protests.

"What a way to start my reign." William sighed softly, pausing for thought before turning to beckon over one of the men sat on the front row. England nearly cried out in surprise - the man...boy...was France! He looked older but not by much, evidently still a child in most ways. He was dressed in flamboyant radiance and looked handsome in his brightly coloured robes. His long hair was brushed and gleaming and his blue eyes twinkled with joy, he seemed lively and vibrant, enjoying every moment of the coronation.

Striding over to the little group he sent them a dazzling smile before speaking, "What seems to be the trouble Monsieurs?" He listened attentively as they explained before nodding and imparting his wisdom, handling the situation with surprising clarity. "We shall continue Mass and finish the ceremony. I shall wait at the back of the church where you," he pointed at the guard who had spoken before, "shall keep me updated with the situation. If it gets out of hand we shall evacuate. Keep it monitored." He waved his hand to shoo the guard before bowing with a flourish to the king and priest and retreating to the promised location.

England sunk back, bemused by the situation. France was here in an obviously English place, crowning a king of England. But the coronation was translated into French and he heard smatterings of both French and Anglo-Saxon in the whisperings of the congregation. A slow sinking feeling pooled into the pit of the child's stomach as he realised. France was in a good mood. France was here. France had invaded England and placed a French king on the throne and judging by the appearance of those in the room this was not some far flung distant future. Some fashions had changed but it was obviously not a completely new look.

The child blinked, realising that tears were streaming down his face at his future. He prayed it was simply a random vision of the void, that The Province of Shadows was tantalising him with futures that may not come to pass. He felt betrayed by his only true friend as he watched France gleam and glitter in joy, the incident outside doing nothing to dampen his good spirits. England wondered where his future self was in all of this, it seemed illogical that he would not attend the coronation. Unless he had been forced not to attend? He shuddered at the thought, imagining himself locked away in a dungeon awaiting the mercy of the Frenchman.

The scene suddenly changed, but the Frenchman remained, flicking his golden hair and smiling happily. Behind him, fields burnt, animals were being slaughtered and thrown into the fire. France faced forward so he could not see the men, women and children being put to death in a systematic and orderly fashion by the soldiers of his armies. William stood beside France, his expression impassive as he ignored the destruction.

The two were interrupted as England ran over to them. But this England was older, no longer an infant but a young child of five or six and he had a fiery determination in his stride, his finger pointing at William and France. The younger England watched, entranced in his horror by the scene playing out before him.

"Stop it! They have learnt their lesson! Do not take any more innocent lives! People are starving...innocent people! There only crime is they were born in the north. Please, France...make it stop! It hurts!" The strong facade melted as England clutched his stomach. The child was dressed in a green cloak and pale brown tunic and hoes, the light colour showing blood far too easily. It pooled out and dripped down the child's stomach, the wounds to the land wounding him too deeply.

The younger England bit his bottom lip, greatly distressed by this turn of events - who would not feel distress at seeing their future self bleed? Still, he was surprised that France pales and ran over to his bleeding counterpart. The elder drew him steadily into his arms and held him tight, tearing off some of his own cloak to press to the wound. Tenderness, oozed from his every gesture and it was clear that he was not faking the concern he showed. How could one allow such cruelty and then turn so quickly into that? The onlooker shuddered, unsure what to think but remaining miserable either way.

France settled the wounded party on his lap and ministered to his wounds. He sent a glare of malice over to William who shrugged and called off his soldiers from the villagers, most of whom were dead or left without a food source anyway. The soldiers and William marched off, leaving two Englands and a France alone amidst the carnage.

"Why are you doing this?" The older England croaked, eyes glazed with hurt and unable to shun the comfort that the Frenchman was providing due to his weakened state.

"I just want to see you safe, mon lapin." Frances replied, stroking the hair of the other with a gentle caress. "I know it hurts for now but soon you will understand that I have only ever done anything because I care about you. I just want to look after you and protect you from the many who would harm you and this is the only way I know how." His voice was torn as though the decision agonised him and raw grief could be seen on his features. "I did not expect you to lead a rebellion." He sighed, long and deep, his tone was soft and soothing, "William would not let the rebellion go unpunished. I pleaded and begged but all I got for my efforts was to be forced to participate in the punishments." A few tears ran down the features of the boy, "I am so sorry...I never meant to hurt you."

The older England swallowed thickly before replying, "I understand why you did it but I won't ever forgive you for it. You are going to change everything and my people did not want change. They were content, Harold was a good King while he lasted and he would have destroyed the Danish threat. What have you done?" His voice cracked in misery, "You have spoiled everything, I hope you are happy." The child broke down in tears from both pain and distress at the situation, the elder rocking him gently in his arms, his own tears falling freely.

The younger England watched in silence, his gaze completely locked on the scene before him, barely able to understand the situation. He sniffed once, a few tears falling as both the blonde children and the carnage behind them faded to black once more, leaving a hollow feeling inside at what could come.

 **A/N: William's coronation was interrupted by the guards outside who thought the cheers inside Westminster Abbey were a rabble and therefore the guards started setting fire to the houses in the area. The coronation continued despite the commotion. The priest is the Archbishop of York, Aldred. Westminster Abbey was a relatively new monastery at this point, endorsed by Edward the Confessor and completed in 1065. The modern cathedral did not come until the thirteenth century and was not completed until well after that. The burning and killings were William's purging of the North of 1069-1070. A sorry affair where the Northern rebels were crushed and killed by the conquering Norman forces, many northerners starved and whole villages were destroyed. It was a very brutal punishment for the time.**

 **Thanks for reading and your continued support.**

 **I do not own Hetalia.**


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

 **Warnings for sickness and death.**

New colours faded into being from the blackness, like a rainbow fading from a storm of darkness. They swirled into a vortex of colour, threatening to suck England into its depths like a ship threatens a whirlpool. Instinctively he stepped away, but it was to no avail and soon he found himself tugged into the multicoloured tornado, tossed around like an insect, he dizzily spun. Time slowed and he lost all sense of being at the unpleasant experience. Just as he thought he would be sick with the cartwheel of motion, he was spat out into a new scene, the colour vortex fading to black behind him.

A grim scene greeted him. He found himself inside a small house, the walls were wattle and daub and the ceiling thatch. There were four wooden beds spread around a roaring fireplace. Each of these beds was occupied by a figure but it was the state of these people that caught the attention of England. For each person was coughing and feverish, with a glimpse of boils in their uncovered armpits. They stank of death and decay and shivered relentlessly. Pitiful figures sheltered by thin blankets, shivering profusely despite the warmth of the fire. England felt a lump in his throat at the sight before him but he genuinely cried out when he recognised one of the individuals. Lying on his back in a wretched state and unconscious with fever lay France.

He was older than both the previous vision and the France of the present, a teenager in the eyes of men. The poor nation was topless and partially covered in a blanket. The bare flesh revealed an unhealthy level of weight loss and his ribs stuck out from his breathless chest. Pitiful coughs wracked through him and the grim boils were evident. His once thick, lustrous, golden hair was now a tangled web of lank, matter locks, with several bald patches on his bony scalp. Bright blue eyes were half closed and hollow and his rosy lips were now chapped, dry and mumbling half forgotten prayers in a mix of Latin and French. Bony fingers twitched, absently seeking comfort in a situation devoid of all hope.

Quietly, England crept closer, well aware that none of the tortured people present would pay him heed in such dire circumstances. The child knelt by the bed and cautiously reached forward to tuck a little of the Frenchman's hair out of his face. England's instincts screamed at him, telling him to run from this death house, to get far away and never come back, yet his rational mind told him nothing would harm him in the Province of Shadows. So he stayed, watching the helpless form in front of him. However cruel France may have been in the past, the boy did not deserve this mournful fate. The proud, vein and passionate man deserved a death of glory and renown not this wretched sickness that reduced him to a shadow of his former self. England knew that death or a miracle would be the man's only saviour now.

England felt nothing but pity for him, despite the recent heartbreak and pain that the other had caused to him and his undeserving people. Children often forgive those that do them wrong and England could not bare to see the other suffer. Searching around he found a cup of water and propped the others head up, gently feeding him a little water, although most dribbled down his pale chin. Placing the cup down, England sat cross legged on the floor and took France's hand into his, holding it gently as a simple gesture of comfort to the dying man. Unsure what else to do the child simply sat and waited, trying to tune out the dire stench of sickness and the wheezing coughs of the pathetic people around him.

To keep his spirits up, he hummed a simple tune, his voice childish and out of tune but the melody was just about picked out. He absently wondered where he had heard such music before, the tune seeming familiar to him. It was only when he finished the song that he realised France had sung it too him several days before he arrived at this wretched realm of darkness to get him to sleep. A part of England wished for the other to wake up and sing that simple French lullaby once more. He wished he could forget everything he had witness since arriving in the Principality of Shadows bar those brief moments of peace and respite that his magical friends had gifted to him. He felt like he would stay trapped in this place forever, never escaping the torments that the past and future would bring. Aching for some sort of comfort he tugged a little on France's hand but it did nothing to wake the other up.

Unable to stand another moment in the dark place, the youngster pulled a simple leather pendant from around his neck. It depicted the Christian Cross in carved metal. Reaching up, England placed the cross over the heart of the other and turned away, leaving the other in the hand's of God, he walked towards the blackness of the void once more.

The hearth fire grew as he walked away and suddenly the entire darkness before him was consumed with flames. Fires as great as the sun raged in all directions, their tips reaching abnormal heights and their orange depths caressing England's pale skin, yet he felt no heat or pain. He kept walking towards the heart of the flames, not daring to glance back, lest he turn back to comfort the other once more.

After a few minutes of walking the flames died down to the size of a substantial bonfire in front of him. They leapt about in their merry dance and appeared rather beautiful. England watched them with a mesmerised look and would have been content to watch them for some time had he not noticed the blood chilling truth. There, in the heart of the fire, was a person. Nought but a girl. As soon as he realised this the scene kicked to life and blood chilling screams rent the air asunder. A group of armour clad soldiers watched the scene pitilessly, no mercy on their smug expressions as the fire danced to the tune of death.

England saw none grieve for the girl and he felt sad that no tears were shed. No sooner had this thought crossed his mind than someone came running forwards. Breathless and panting, tears streaming down his face, a familiar blonde Frenchman came whirling into view.

"Joan! Non...non...non..." he screamed, reaching his hand towards the flames. The girl just about caught sight of him and sent him a small, unhappy smile before her eyes closed for the last time and her torment passed at last. France collapsed to his knees and buried his hands in his face, tearing at his hair in his grief. His sobs echoed loudly, accompanied by the roar and crackle of the fire in front of him, the two forming a somber music together. Misery drowned the teenager and he succumbed to it wholeheartedly for a long time.

Suddenly, after what felt like hours of grief, France sat up and leaned back, gazing up at some unknown point in the sky. "England...why...why did you kill my Joan." Shuddering with misery, he let out another heart wrenching sob, "Anyone but Joan..." Slowly, he stood up, a deathly madness in his eyes and he turned to the guards, speaking with a boldness he obviously did not feel, "Tell England that I will never forgive him for this deed. I will not rest or sleep until I have annihilated him and all his people. Tell him not to sleep at night for he will never know when I will strike and get my vengeance." France was shaking with both grief and anger and the glint in his eye struck fear into both the guards and England. The guards turned to run, either from fear or to pass on their message. France was left alone, gazing pensively at the fire that had taken the one dear to him.

England sniffed a few times, frightened and upset by the turn of events and wondering when he would next see something joyful in the unhappy realm of darkness. The future seemed so bleak for the young child and his friend and he prayed once again that these events would not take place. Silently, he watched the flames dance, finding it ironic that something so full of life and beauty could take away a life so easily. He wondered who this girl was to mean so much to France and why his future self had ordered her execution. England in his short life span (for a nation) had had few direct connections with humans and most had been a fleeting contact that had barely allowed for any significant bonding. France was certainly one of the people he had spent the most time with and they had barely known each other for long in the eyes of nations or men. Evidently they had a long and twisted future together, their fates interwoven like strands of a tapestry.

Miserably he turned away from both fire and nation and looked to the void once more, silently begging it to show a joyful turn of events but he was met only by the never ending darkness and an all consuming lack of noise. He reached a hand out as though wishing to grab some joy in the depths of the abyss, but nothing came forth. England sunk to his knees and wept quietly, waiting whatever torture that the Principality of Shadows had in store for him next.

 **A/N: The Black Death swept across Europe and Asia in the mid 14th Century and killed millions of people across Europe nearly a third of the population of England. The symptoms were horrific and the lack of advanced medical practice meant that death was almost certain. Whole villages were wiped out.**

 **Joan of Arc was burnt at the stake in 1412 after capture by the English during the Hundred Years' War. Joan successfully kept the English at bay and enabled the crowning of the French king, after receiving a vision God to go and lead the French armies.**

 **Thanks for reading, favouriting and reviewing.**


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

The darkness pooled around him, covering him like smoke. It whirled and danced around his tiny, weeping form, making him seem small and insignificant. He certainly felt that way, his self esteem plummeting to the depths of the deepest recesses of his mind, falling into a cavern that once closed may not be opened again for centuries to come. England looked pale as a sheet, his skin a ghostly white and contrasting vividly against the inky blackness around him, making him seem corporeal in form and features. Never in his short existence had he felt misery and fear such as this. Afraid that he may never leave this wretched place, he suddenly sprang to life and started to run, screaming and crying in pain.

"Let out! Let out! Home! Wanna home!" Running blindly through the darkness, he screamed and shouted, desperate to flee. His legs shook with emotion and for the first time since arriving in the Principality of Shadows he felt tired, fatigue rocketing through him like a falcon swoops down on its pray. Stumbling, he collapsed to his knees once more, shivering and sobbing brokenly as any resolve and strength he had broke with the onset of fear and distress. His arms snaked around himself and he hugged himself for comfort, remembering fondly the feeling of France cuddling him in comfort or the softness of Uni's fur in his arms. England was utterly desperate for someone, anyone, to hold him and tell him that things would be okay. He had never felt so small and young as he closed his eyes to the darkness, wishing it away.

Time stretched and he lost all track of how long he knelt there, hugging himself and shivering and whimpering in anguish. It may have been seconds or days, this place distorted reality in an incomprehensible fashion. The isolation was crippling for all he could hear was the sound of his own crying, nothing else permeating through to him. It took him by surprise therefore, when the sudden sound of footsteps was heard and a blinding white light tinged his closed eyelids. Opening his eyes slowly, he tried to focus on the white light, but found it almost impossible, blinking rapidly in response to the sudden radiant beams. It was beautiful, the light, for it seemed as pure as the most perfect snow and as warm as a hot summers day. Despite his misery, he felt the light was calming, comforting almost in its splendour, almost as though the light was draping him in clothes that would protect him from the all consuming darkness.

Abruptly, the light spoke in rich, feminine tones that seemed to hold within them the wisdom of the ages, "Do not weep little child. There is much to rejoice in, for I am here now." From the light a single hand reached forward and soothingly stroked his messy, blonde hair in a gentle, comforting gesture. The child relaxed, finding the pain easing a little, his instincts telling him to trust whoever this person was.

"Who you?" He asked, slightly timidly, as though afraid that his curiosity might drive them away.

"I am Britannia, the Mother of your land." She replied, her majesty almost overwhelming the child before her. England almost thought he could make out her features in the light, although it was almost impossible to see - a feeling not dissimilar to trying to make out a face in the light of the direct sun.

"You Mother?" His large green eyes were tinted and glistening in the brilliant white light and were trained on her with an innocent questioning expression.

"Yes, I suppose I am your Mother little one. As much as any of the Nations have kin." Her voice was filled with warmth and care, "I certainly love you like a mother loves their child."

She bent down and slowly picked up the child, drawing him into her arms in a gentle embrace. England had never felt so warm and loved as he did in that moment. It seemed that she had poured all her love and kindness into that one gesture and England soaked it up in utter childish bliss. He turned into her, nuzzling affectionately as instincts took over. In all his life he had never felt as cared for as he did in that moment and it felt as though any grief he had had evaporated.

"Is this love?" He queried, his childish innocence shining through the simple question. Although in many ways it was sad, for the little experience he had had in love was also threading its way through his words.

"Yes, this is love my sweet." She held him even closer as though to prove it, revelling in the feel of her precious child in her arms.

"I like love." England replied simply, enjoying the moment of affection. He felt as though all his sorrows had been washed away and replaced with a strength that he had never known before. He felt as though he could take on the world with this precious feeling circling through him. "Stay forever?" He asked, his simple wish almost impossible to refuse.

"My child, I wish I could. I have watched you grow from this land. I have seen you learn about the world. I am so proud of you and what you will achieve." A lilting sign rippled through the light clad being. "My love, I cannot stay with you in the land from which you come. I had my time and now my children have taken over. I just wish you the longevity that your Anglo-Saxon brothers could not have. You have other brothers though, Scotland, Ireland and Wales. They will not understand you and you will not understand them, but one day there shall be peace between you all." She soothingly stroked his back as she spoke, "They will always care for you little one, even if you do not always see eye to eye."

The child listened to her words intently, storing them away in his heart. He had learnt so much since coming to this place and he prayed that he would never forget the lessons that had been taught to him.

"Stay here?" He mumbled, hoping that perhaps if she could not join him in his world she would stay with him while he was in the darkness.

"My dear child, you have much to learn that I cannot teach you in this realm. Stay strong little one, you will pull through." She placed a small, tender kiss on his brow. "I will see you again before you leave this place and I am always watching whether you are here or there. You will not stay much longer here I do not think, this realm knows when it will have shown you enough." She swayed gently in an instinctive form of comfort, "Be strong, I know you can be and if you get afraid again then call and I will come."

Softly, she hummed to the child, swaying gently and embracing him warmly. England felt a yawn ripple through him and was surprised at how drowsy he felt. Once more fatigue seeped into him and he slowly closed his eyes. The feeling of security was overwhelming and made him want to sleep and make the most of the comfort provided to him.

"Go to sleep little one, I will keep you safe." She spoke gently, her words soft and sweet as she swayed gently.

The sweet humming echoed with a melancholy melody and made him feel warm and content. He hardly noticed when he finally fell asleep, although even in sleep the comfort rippled through him so he felt completely and totally content.

Britannia saw the little child fall asleep in her arms and smiled to herself. She placed a small kiss on his forehead before she wrapped him warmly in blankets of the light that radiated from her. Slowly, she placed him onto the ground, her heart aching as the child stirred slightly. She could not fathom how much she wanted to pick him up once more and never let him part from her side. Still, she knew he was safe in the light that protected him and that was enough.

Humming gently, she turned and walked away slowly, not daring to give the child a backward glance as she disappeared into the void once more, her footsteps echoing away into silence.

A/N: Thanks for reading and supporting my work.

I do not own Hetalia.


End file.
